


Dirty Things

by militantblackbabe



Series: Where The Salt Line Ends (Gallavich Hunter Verse) [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff and UST at laundromats because why not, Gallavich, M/M, Supernatural Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/militantblackbabe/pseuds/militantblackbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey stop at a laundromat a 3 am on a Tuesday night. Supernatural crossover, Gallavich-as-hunters AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Things

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the promo photos for 5x10 with Ian and Mickey all bloodied up in plaid and big coats. I'm sorry but that is such a Winchester look, am I right?

The laundromat is empty when they walk in, a blessing for which they’re eternally grateful after the night that they’ve had. That wendigo refused to go down without one hell of a fight. The fingers on Ian’s right hand are totally fucked up and Mickey has dried who-knows-what on his coat and hair and face, but whatever. They’re alive. It’s dead. They win.

Ian digs some spare change out of his pocket as Mickey tries to rip off his coat without touching too much of it. They get the machine started and bundle in their coats. Ian shoulders out of his button-down and adds it in at the last minute, and holds his hand out until Mickey relents and does the same.

Ian gives the machine one last slap before heading for the door.

“Where you going?” Mickey calls and Ian turns around, smiling.

“Saw a liquor store down the street,” he says by way of explanation. Mickey waves him away.

“Shit, you know what I like, Gallagher.”

When he gets outside, Ian finds that the night air doesn’t bite – it feels good, and he feels like himself again. He wants so desperately to hold onto this feeling, to not lose it in the fog. When he gets to the store, he buys a fifth of cheap vodka and makes the quick walk back to the laundromat fighting the urge to skip – or worse, dance. A part of him realizes that probably isn’t the most normal reaction to have after almost being killed by a creature that’s supposed to be pure urban legend, but whatever – nothing about their lives is normal anymore.

When he gets back, Mickey is sitting atop an empty machine, smoking a cigarette and drumming his fingers against the metal underneath him. There’s a tiny TV in the corner of the ceiling, but its screen is dull and black.

“Think I could steal that?” Mickey asks, using his cigarette to gesture up at the TV. Ian goes to lean against the machine closest to him.

“I think you could steal anything.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. Ian smiles because Mickey responds to insults and compliments in the exact same way and it will never not make him smile.

He holds up the crumpled paper bag holding the vodka and gives it a little shake in Mickey’s direction. When he sees it his face breaks out into a smile.

“Nice.”

Ian lets him have the first drink. He’s being nice but also he kinda just likes to watch the long expanse of Mickey’s throat work.

“You’ve got a little-“ Ian gestures at Mickey’s face, and then his own, circling his hand in front of his general chin area. “Just a little- right there-”

“What?” Mickey says. “Blood? Shit? Brain matter? Spit it out, Gallagher.”

Ian laughs. “Looks more like ketchup from the burgers we had earlier, but I guess now that I think about it could be gross monster guts?” Ian smiles, and Mickey lets him wipe at his face with the hem of his threadbare t-shirt.

“Definitely ketchup,” he says once he’s finished.

“Thank fucking God.” Mickey raises his hands to bite at his fingernails but then seems to think better of it. He settles for rolling his neck and swinging his feet so that they bang obnoxiously loud against the metal. Apparently he wants to pass the time by seeing how much he can annoy Ian, but the joke’s on him because it’s not going to work. This is the most normal he’s felt in a long time, and he’s pleased as fucking punch. It took the brutal extermination of a bloodthirsty monster for him to get here, but whatever, right? Details, details. He pushes off of the machine to stand in front of Mickey. He grips Mickey’s knees the best that he can manage and Mickey lets him parts his legs, lets Ian stand right in between them. He doesn’t even look around first to see if they’re still alone.

“Kiss me,” Ian says. Mickey’s grin is sudden and explosive, feels like something coming to life in Ian’s chest. Blood is crusted in his eyebrow and he has a wicked bruise on his chin but Mickey Milkovich has always been and will always be the most beautiful creature Ian has ever laid eyes on. “Kiss me,” he says again.

“Fuck no.” Mickey laughs.

“Why not?” Ian can’t stop looking at Mickey’s lips, his eyes, his face – at Mickey. He would devour him right now if Mickey would let him.

“Shit, pick a reason,” Mickey says. He reaches for the vodka but doesn’t make Ian move out from between his legs, so he doesn’t.

“I can’t think of any,” Ian says, and snatches the bottle before Mickey can drink from it. He takes a long gulp that leaves a trail of fire down his throat, Mickey giving him the finger the whole time. He smiles and swallows and when he offers the bottle Mickey snatches it back.

“You sure about that?” Mickey’s eye flit to the large, glass storefront windows, the cameras in the corners that may or may not work. Ian doesn’t bother to follow his gaze.

“Can’t think of any reason good enough not to kiss you right now,’ Ian says quietly, eyes never leaving Mickey’s. Mickey watches him for a long moment before bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a healthy swig.

“Later,” Mickey says finally. Ian smiles.

“Not later,” he says, stepping closer. “Want you now.”

“You givin’ me orders now, Gallagher?” Mickey’s lips are slick and Ian wants to taste them. When he moves forward to press his luck, Mickey places a hand squarely on his chest, gives him a little shove backward that goes straight to Ian’s cock.

“Kiss me,” Ian says, letting a little bit of a whine slip into his voice. He’s smiling like an idiot but it’s ok because he’s not the only one.

“Fine,” Mickey says, wearing the kind of wicked grin that has gotten him bent over the nearest horizontal surface many a time, but before Ian can move Mickey grabs his hand and brings the back of it to his mouth to plant a chaste kiss there. “Happy?” he asks, and throws Ian his hand back.

“No,” Ian says, though it’s a lie. (“Oh of course you’re not,” Mickey mumbles, smiling, as he digs in the pocket of his jeans for a cigarette.) “I never knew you could be such a gentleman, Mick.”

Mickey pulls out a cigarette and lights it, talks through the smoke. “Fuck you, I’m always a gentleman.” He lowers the cigarette and looks at Ian, a smile playing about his lips.

That smile. It’s going to be the death of him. He’s going to spontaneously combust in a burst of want and need and love and it’s going to be all Mickey Milkovich’s fault.

Across from them, their machine slows to a stop, and Mickey hops down and pushes Ian aside.

“Move it. _Please_ ,” he adds, and Ian collapses in a fit of giggles as Mickey goes to throw their coats into the dryer.

Once he manages to regain his composure, he hops onto the washer to sit and watch Mickey. It’s one of his favorite pastimes, if he’s being honest, watching Mickey when he doesn’t know he’s being watched. Like yeah, maybe it’s a little creepy, but whatever. It’s not that weird if it’s your boyfriend. He could write poetry about the way Mickey moves – hell, he has, but he’ll be damned if he ever admits that to the man who once referred to a handshake in a movie as ‘fucking gay as shit.’ It’s all bullshit, of course – Mickey’s kind of a sentimental bastard but they both diligently pretend otherwise.

Mickey closes the dryer and turns to join him, and if Mickey’s face goes a little red, if he looks away when he realizes that Ian’s been watching him again, Ian is a good enough guy not to say anything. Mickey hops up to sit next to him (“Need some help there?” “Fuck you, Captain Hook.”). Ian scoots over a little bit so that the sides of their legs are pressed together. Mickey pretends not to notice and offers him the cigarette.

“Should we be smoking in here?”

Mickey shrugs. “Should we be drinking in here? Who gives a fuck?” Mickey says, managing to express with his eyebrows alone that he thinks Ian belongs on the short bus.

Ian shrugs and takes it. He smokes in silence for a moment before bumping Mickey’s shoulder with his own.

“Guess what?” he says quietly, eyes on the wall in front of them.

“What, fuckface?” Mickey says. Ian turns to look at Mickey, who’s staring at him expectantly. Ian leans closer, so that his mouth is by Mickey’s ear. He breaths in the smell of his skin and snakes a hand onto Mickey’s thigh, curling his fingers slowly.

“I’m going to fuck the breath out of you the first chance I get,” he breathes. He doesn’t move at first, just enjoys the way he imagines Mickey starting to come undone inside, and then he leans back, sparing Mickey one last friendly pat on the thigh. Ian watches as Mickey clears his throat, enthralled with the way he wets his lips and the way his Adam’s apple bobs because he has to swallow down what he’s feeling. That’s Mickey, always trying to keep everything under control, and there’s nothing Ian enjoys more than making him lose it.

“Ok then,” Mickey says, looking around and nodding to himself. He turns to Ian after a long moment wherein Ian just smokes quietly and watches Mickey and thinks happily about his plans. When he speaks it’s in a voice that’s trying too hard to be casual. “Wanna get the fuck outta here?”

“What do you think?” Ian says, smiling, already tamping the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. Mickey stops the machine and their coats tumble out, mostly dry. It doesn’t matter. Something about tonight makes the night air feel good when it hits you. They won’t need them.

**Author's Note:**

> thatmilitantblackgirl.tumblr.com


End file.
